There was a crescendo of muttering and whispering outside and the door creaked open a fraction wider. Despite my agony I felt a surge of joy. Sebastian, intentionally or unintentionally, had forced Miko to show his hand.
‘Yes. I admit she would be a fool, if no other consideration came into it. But you see –’ Sebastian also hesitated for a moment, then walked over to the door and closed it – ‘it’s not just a question of her career.’ He shot a glance in my direction. Never had those Atlantic grey eyes looked colder. ‘You’re the first to be let in on the secret, Miko. I’ve asked Marigold to marry me.’
Miko was clearly taken aback, in fact he practically rocked on his heels, but his astonishment was as nothing compared with mine. No word of marriage, love or even mild affection had ever crossed Sebastian’s rather thin lips. I realized that my mouth was hanging unattractively open. He came over and put a proprietorial hand on my shoulder.
‘I know Marigold too well to believe that she would put ambition before my – our happiness.’
The idea was preposterous. This must be a trick, invented on the spot, to put a spoke in Miko’s wheel. Miko’s little eyes were still twinkling but a frown puckered the cushions of fat above them.
I felt Sebastian’s hand tighten on my collarbone. ‘Marigold?’ he said softly.
I stared up at him, trying to fathom his mind. Could it be … that he really wanted to marry me? If there was even the smallest possibility that he was sincere I could not decline his offer abruptly and callously in front of Miko. It would be discourteous, even cruel. Even as I thought this I chided myself for a fool. Sebastian had never given me a moment’s thought except as a potential money-maker and – how had Bruce described me? – a spunk-bucket. God! What ought I to do? My whole future might depend on my present answer and my entire leg was pounding, bursting with pain. For a moment I thought I was going to be sick. Perhaps that would be the best thing. Though it would be embarrassing it would save me from having to make a decision. In the event I did something less messy and more serviceable. I fainted.
‘This is so kind of you,’ I said to Sebastian the following day. ‘I’ve never had so much luxury.’
Things had taken such a dramatic turn for the better that I had to pinch myself several times for reassurance. On my way to class that morning, getting downstairs and crossing Maxwell Street had hurt so much that I had groaned aloud. I had fainted in the bus queue and been rushed by ambulance, with flashing light and wailing siren, to hospital. Once there all sense of urgency seemed to evaporate and I had sat in A&E in great pain, ignored by everyone for at least a couple of hours until it occurred to me that I ought to find a telephone and let the LBC know I probably wouldn’t be coming in that day. Sebastian’s sudden appearance among the bored staff and grumbling, impotent patients was as galvanizing as a lion’s among grazing wildebeest. I had been taken by wheelchair to a waiting taxi and driven to the Wyngarde Private Clinic.
Now I had a room all to myself which looked like a set in a Doris Day film. The bed had a pink velvet quilted headboard, there were curtains with roses on and two pink wing chairs for visitors. An enormous television stood at the foot of the bed. I had my own pink bathroom complete with bathrobe and the end sheet of the lav paper folded into a point.
‘Proudlock-Jones is the best man in the business for feet.’ Sebastian wandered about the room, inspecting the view of Wimpole Street from the window, the telephone, which he unplugged, the arrangement of artificial roses – pink, of course – on the bedside table and finally my cotton nightgown which the pretty nurse had brought me. ‘Unfortunately he doesn’t work on the NHS.’ Sebastian put one knee experimentally on the bed.
‘Ow-how!’ I yelled.
‘All right, no need to make a fuss,’ he said rather grumpily.
The pretty nurse came back just then, wreathed in smiles and bearing the ubiquitous kidney-shaped dish. It seems a peculiar fetish of the medical profession. After all, it must be comparatively rarely that they actually have a kidney to put in it. I saw to my dismay that it contained a syringe with a needle as thick as a pencil. ‘Here we are, Miss Savage. I’m just going to pop in your premed. If you’ll wait in the corridor, sir, for one minute …’ The nurse dimpled in response to Sebastian’s dramatic good looks as she held up the syringe and squirted out some liquid.
‘I don’t see why I should leave,’ Sebastian protested. ‘I’m not squeamish.’
‘Ah, but I’m going to put it in her derrière.’ She gave him an arch look. ‘And you can take away that champagne. She’s on nil by mouth until after her op.’
‘All right, I’ll come back later. Don’t do anything stupid, Marigold,’ he added by way of valediction.
‘Your boyfriend’s awfully handsome,’ said the pretty nurse. ‘Just a teeny prick.’ I bit back the obvious retort. It was actually quite a large prick but as nothing compared with the agony of my foot. ‘Well done!’ The nurse patted my arm sympathetically. ‘You’ll start to feel woozy very soon. Nothing to worry about, dear. Mr Proudlock-Jones is a wonderful surgeon. You couldn’t be in better hands.’ She tapped my cheek with her finger, then went away. I felt comforted by so much kindness. My mind began to unravel as whatever had been in the syringe swirled in my bloodstream. It was a glorious feeling.
‘Hello, darling,’ said Lizzie’s voice what seemed like five minutes later.
‘Oh, Lizzie,’ I said sleepily. ‘Thanks … coming … see me. Going … have operation … soon.’
‘You’ve had it,’ said the pretty nurse, beaming over Lizzie’s shoulder. ‘It’s all over, dear, and it went very well. Mr Proudlock-Jones is very pleased with you.’
‘Oh, good,’ I said, though I couldn’t think why he would be. I hadn’t actually done anything, as far as I was aware.
‘Would you like to sit with your friend for a while?’ said the nurse to Lizzie. ‘I’ll pop back later. Press the bell if you want anything.’
‘I say,’ said Lizzie. ‘This place is utter bliss, isn’t it? Fancy a chocolate finger biscuit?’
‘Not … just now.’
I must have dozed again, for when I came to Lizzie was deep in the copy of Tatler that came courtesy of the Wyngarde Clinic. ‘How are you feeling?’ Lizzie leaned forward sympathetically. She had quite a lot of chocolate at the corners of her mouth.
‘Okay. No pain. Thirsty.’
‘Nurse Thingummy’s been back and she said to give you little sips of water if you wanted it.’ The water was iced and deliciously refreshing. ‘Marigold, do you think I could possibly have a bath in your wonderful bathroom? Ours is heated by the range and Granny always lets it go out during the day to save coal. I haven’t had a hot bath in years.’
‘Go right ahead.’ I waved my hand in a lordly way.
I woke up again a little later to hear the sound of splashing and lots of oohs and aahs.
‘Crikey!’ said Lizzie through the open door. ‘I didn’t know water could be this hot.’
‘You’d better not faint,’ I said, ‘because I’m in no state to fish you out – oh, hello!’
‘I’m Anthony Proudlock-Jones.’ A middle-aged man with a pinstriped suit stretched over his corpulent form strode into the room and seized my hand in his plump smooth one. ‘We’ve met before but you were unconscious.’ He chuckled throatily in a way that suggested whole humidors of cigars. ‘I’m sure they’ve